Page:Southern Historical Society Papers volume 14.djvu/231

 The Broken Mug. 225

Those lips this broken vessel touched,

His, too ! — the man's we all adore — That cavalier of cavaliers,

Whose voice will ring no more —

Whose plume will float amid the storm Of battle nevermore !

Not on this idle page I write

That name of names, shrined in the core Of every heart ! Peace ! foolish pen !

Hush ! words so cold and poor!

His sword is rust ; the blue eyes dust, His bugle sounds no more!

Yet even here write this: He charged!

As Rupert in the years before, And when his stern, hard work was done,

His griefs, joys, battles o'er —

His mighty spirit rode the storm. And led his men once more !

He lies beneath his native sod,

Where violets spring, or frost is hoar. He recks not — charging squadrons watch

His raven plume no more!

That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear, That hand we'll touch no more !

My foolish mirth is quenched in tears ;

Poor fragments strewed upon the floor, You are a type of nobler things

That find their use no more —

Things glorious once, now trodden down — That make us smile no more !

Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts —

Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure. Beating his wings against the bars,

The prisoned eagle tried to soar!

Outmatched, overwhelmed, we struggled still — Bread failed — we fought no more !

Lies in the dust the shattered staff"

That bore aloft on sea and shore That blazing flag, amid the storm !

And none are now so poor !

So poor to do it reverence

Now when it flames no more!